The Runaway Heiress

by Anne O'Brien

  They still stood, separated by space and the tide of events that had finally swept them to this moment, this time for decisions. Their eyes spoke of all the doubts, uncertainties and pain of the past. Then Frances, on a little laugh, forced the issue by taking the final step to lift her arms around his neck and press her body against his. With a groan he wrapped his arms around her, holding her as if he would never release her, covering her mouth with his, first gently and then angling his head to deepen his kiss, making his thorough possession of her a reality. Her response was immediate and more than he could hope for, as he felt her slight frame shudder within his embrace. Her lips parted under his assault, enticing his tongue as it traced the outline of her lips, inviting it to plunder the soft depths.

  At last he raised his head, but the two remained lost in the depths of each other’s eyes, dark with intense desire, and the beat of their hearts, one against the other.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon, casting a soft light over the stone-flagged terrace at the Priory where Frances was sitting. The golden stone of the old house glowed and gave off the subtle warmth that it had absorbed during the day. But it was still only early in May and she would soon have to retreat to the comfort of the library where she knew she would find a welcoming fire.

  They had chosen to continue Frances’s flight to the Priory, leaving Matthew to return to London, and had arrived the previous day, tired but with an indefinable sense of relief. On the journey Aldeborough had enfolded her in his love, assiduously attentive to her every need, reassuring her with the touch of a hand or the possessive arrogance in his eyes as they rested on her, but there was still a tension between them that troubled Frances. She could guess at the problem, but knew that he must work through it in his own way. So she remained silent and as well as her love she gave him the space he needed.

  But she was not without hope because, on awakening that morning, she had found, awaiting her on her dressing table, a gift. A delicate miniature of a golden rose, painted on ivory, petals gleaming softly, new leaves sweetly curled. Created by the hand of an expert, without doubt. Beside it was a rose-bud—a miracle that he had found one so early in the year—

  newly picked with the dew still damp, its cream petals just beginning to unfurl. And beneath the floral offerings was a folded sheet of paper.

  Frances flushed with pleasure at the memory. The miniature now stood in pride of place beside her bed, a permanent reminder of their homecoming to the Priory. The rose was pinned at her bosom where its petals glowed in the warmth of the sun. And the folded sheet … Well, she had carried it all day against her heart. She opened it, smoothed the creases with gentle fingers and felt her heart bound with absolute joy.

  For he had written her a poem. A love poem, no less. Her eyes travelled over the words, deeply etched on the cream paper in Aldebrough’s firm script, and now equally etched in Frances’s own heart.

  Take thou this rose, O Rose,

  Since Love’s own flower it is,

  And by that fragile rose

  Thy Lover captive is.

  Look on this rose, O Rose,

  And looking, smile on me,

  For with thy laughter’s ring

  Thy slave I’ll gladly be.

  Smell thou this rose, O Rose

  And know thyself as sweet,

  Your perfume holds me vassal,

  Adoring at thy feet.

  O Rose, this painted rose

  Draws not the complete whole.

  For he who paints the flower

  Paints not its fragrant soul.

  The whole, as she read again the final line, was dedicated To Frances Rosalind: My Own Incomparable Rose.

  She pressed her lips to the paper as she refolded it and tucked it away. How could he have known? How could he have chosen such tender words that would soothe her heart and yet cause it to ache with love?

  She sighed a little and turned her mind back to the prospect of restocking one of the flower beds with spring bulbs for the following year, until her attention became concentrated on a grey kitten, attempting unsuccessfully to deter it from pouncing on the fringe of the Kashmir shawl draped around her shoulders. She laughed and picked up the ball of fur and claw as it changed its attack to the end of her blue satin sash. But she looked up immediately as she heard footsteps on the gravel path from the sunken garden.

  Aldeborough, casual in shirt sleeves, followed by two energetic gun dogs, strode up the steps at the end of the terrace. The low sun behind him cast his features in shadow and outlined his body with a rim of gold. She watched him as he stopped to lean over the balustrade to exchange some final word with Kington, who laughed and raised a hand in acknowledgement of some comment. The Marquis looked windswept and dishevelled from an afternoon spent in the stables; his handsome face and graceful long-limbed body, which she now knew so well, still had the power to make her catch her breath. Her heart jolted a little as he turned his head to look at her, before it resumed its steady beat. He approached and stood before her, his expression enigmatic, his thoughts quite unreadable. Nor did his first words give her any indication. But she noted the frown between his brows and a flash of some intense longing in his eyes before he banished it and smiled down at her and her companion.

  ‘Hugh. Come and sit with me,’ she invited.

  ‘What’s this?’ He sat beside her on the stone bench and lifted the kitten from her lap. It broke into a miniature purr as his fingers found the sensitive spot between its ears.

  ‘A present. I went to the stables to see Beeswing and Selby presented me with this, I think to get rid of it from under his feet. It has very lively tendencies!’

  ‘I can see that your sash has suffered. What will you do with it?’ He fended off one of the inquisitive dogs with a booted foot.

  ‘Keep it, of course. It might be a good mouser and I think the kitchens could do with one.’

  ‘Only if the mice are very small.’ He placed the kitten on the seat between them where it instantly curled up and fell asleep in the manner of small animals.

  In spite of the humour, his dark brows drew together again in frowning contemplation and his mouth was stern. She made a decision, already half-formed, and took a deep breath.

  ‘Hugh—tell me what troubles you.’

  ‘Why, nothing. What could there be?’ But his answer was a shade too casual and he did not look at her.

  ‘He is still here, is that not true? He still stands between us.’

  Now Aldeborough turned his head to meet her eyes for a long moment. She saw there uncertainty and an element of difficult grief. It pleased her that he did not pretend to misunderstand her.

  Abruptly he stood up. ‘Come and walk with me.’

  He drew her to his side, her hand tucked through his arm as if to reassure himself of her presence, and led her along the terrace, through the old arches and pillars of the ruined priory to the iron gate that allowed them private access to the churchyard, to the church where she had been married when she knew so little of this man at her side. Long shadows were already being cast across the soft grass and a chill breeze began to stir her hair and rustle the new leaves on the beech trees. Frances shivered, whether with cold or tension she was unsure, and pulled her shawl more firmly round her shoulders. They walked in silence, since she knew exactly where he was leading her, only stopping when they reached the cluster of gravestones marking the earthly remains of past Laffords.

  For the most part grey and weather worn, covered with moss and lichen, the words of love and loss indecipherable, they occupied the area of the old monastic graveyard enclosed by ancient walls, shaded by mature oaks and yew. Aldeborough’s father and grandparents, generations of them back into the dimness of history when the house was first conceived. But Aldeborough drew her to a halt beside a new gravestone, startlingly unworn, the name and appropriate wording fresh and deeply incised.

  Richard.

  Richard, the brave, the
carefree and heedless. The laughing, adventurous companion of childhood. And, unless she could achieve a miracle, Richard the divider, the destroyer.

  Frances deliberately moved from her husband’s side to stand opposite, the well-tended green mound of Richard’s grave between them, a symbol of division.

  ‘You have to end it, Hugh. You must lay his ghost or it will eat away at you—and us.’

  ‘I know. I accept that.’ It was as if he had been waiting for this moment, to unburden his bitter legacy to someone who would accept and not judge too harshly. He rested his hand on the stone. ‘I accepted the guilt of his death because it seemed wrong, such a terrible waste, that someone so full of life as Richard should die so wantonly. How could he possibly die because of a chance accident? There had to be some blame—and there was no one other to shoulder it. And because the responsibilities came with the guilt, I made the inheritance of the title and the estate into a burden it should never have been. I resented having to give up my own life, one I loved, one I had chosen against opposition from my father, to take on a lifestyle that should never have been mine.’ He hesitated before continuing in a flat tone, ‘I was embittered and angry—and I allowed my anger to do more harm than you know.’

  ‘Drinking and gaming? Letitia Winters?’

  He grimaced, acknowledging the truth. ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Then tell me,’ she stated calmly, ‘so that there will be no more secrets between us.’

  His body was tense. She saw anger there still and bitter self-mockery and wanted nothing more than to move towards him to take him into her arms to reassure him of her love, but he needed the catharsis of facing Richard and the repercussions of his brother’s death. His voice was low but steady and his eyes never left hers, both a plea for understanding and a challenge.

  ‘The drinking and the gaming you are well aware of—who should know better? And Letitia.’ He sighed. ‘She gave me comfort at a time when I allowed myself to become deluged in self-pity and hatred. I was not a heroic figure. I took you to the Priory that night because I was too drunk to consider your plight. I should not have allowed your honour to be compromised as I did. I married you for my own advantage—because I felt some pride in my family name and had no wish to drag it through public scandal. I neglected you, I left you without protection, knowing that you might be in danger, giving Charles the opportunity to abduct you—if he had murdered you your blood would have been on my hands as much as Richard’s because I knew you were vulnerable. But I did not take enough care with you. I went to Newmarket, God help me, and left you alone in London. And I should have ended the situation between me and Penelope from the beginning, instead of ignoring it in the belief that it was not important. It was selfish in the extreme and it encouraged Penelope to believe that her position as my wife was desirable and attainable, regardless of the means. Whatever you might say, whatever arguments I might make for my actions or lack of them, I put your life in danger. I deserve your condemnation, Frances. Certainly not your love.’

  She bowed her head, hands clasped tightly, to study the intricate carvings before her and the words that committed Richard to God’s saving grace.

  ‘Very well. I accept what you say. But I believe that I must redress the balance. You say that you neglected me. I do not see it like that. You gave me a family, status, wealth, luxury—you might take that for granted, but I cannot for I had none of it. You did not have to marry me. What was I? A nobody, hardly worthy of your consideration. You could have sent me back to my uncle with an explanation of my foolishness and a word of apology and all would have been smoothed over. I had no reputation to lose and yet you chose to reinstate me in the eyes of the world. How should I not love you? You showed me compassion and gave me back my self-respect. I will never forget the night you touched my scars with such tenderness and pressed your lips to them as if they were symbols of beauty, not of degradation. You removed the ugliness and the shame that I carried with me when I could not bear that anyone should know. I think that was the moment I fell in love with you.’

  ‘I remember. I remember the fear in your eyes. It will live with me forever.’

  ‘Yes. You say that you could have protected me from Charles. You knew that he was driven by greed and despair—Penelope too. You cannot take the blame for that. How could you possibly have foreseen the outcome of your marriage to me? There are too many complicated strands woven together to be separated and I do not see that you are answerable for my cousin’s sins.’

  ‘You are too generous, Frances.’ His lips were still compressed into a firm line.

  ‘I am realistic. Hugh, I love you but I can not—will not—live my life with Richard standing between us. Do you really think he would have wanted that?’

  ‘No.’ His eyes fell to the stone beneath his hand. ‘I am certain that he would have been the first to damn me for a fool.’

  ‘Well, then.’ She let the silence stretch between them again. She knew he had to come to his own salvation.

  ‘I know what the remedy is.’ He turned from her to look out over the rolling parkland and woods to where the village was half-hidden by a fold in the hillside. ‘It is here. The estate. The money is available. It simply needs time and interest and investment. My father and Richard … well, they did not see it as a way of life, rather a method of financing a town house in London and a hunting lodge in Leicestershire. I would try to make improvements here. I would breed horses. You have seen for yourself how much needs to be done and how much can be achieved. I have come to realise that this is a project that needs my time and can bring me satisfaction—perhaps it is in my blood after all. And now I have the added responsibility of a wife to consider.’ He turned back to look at her, demanding her honesty. ‘Would you be willing to accept life here rather than in London?’

  ‘What? No London Season?’ There was mischief in the curve of her lips. ‘That was the only reason I would consent to marry you!’

  ‘I think we might stretch a point there.’ His face remained grave, but she sensed a lightening of the atmosphere and saw an answering gleam in his eye.

  She did not answer at once. And then, ‘Would you be willing to accept life here rather than in the Army—and be content?’

  For the first time since they entered the churchyard, a shadow of a smile touched his face. ‘You are very astute. Yes, I can. Perhaps I should give in to overwhelming pressure and let Matthew go—if only to keep him out of Pall Mall gaming hells.’

  She smiled in recognition of the gesture, but remained where she stood, still separated from him. She held her breath. Matthew’s future might be settled, but hers was still in the balance.

  She did not have to wait long. He held out his hand, the old dominance evident in his commanding gesture and fierce gaze, and she was compelled to put her own into it.

  ‘Well, Madam Wife?’

  ‘I will live here with you. The place touches my heart, from the night you first brought me here. Make it work, Hugh. Remove the neglect and make it live again.’

  It was what he had been waiting to hear and he realised with a warmth that spread through his whole body that she had pushed him to make the commitment. He raised their clasped hands to his lips, kissing her fingers in a silent promise. The lingering peace and serenity of the long-dead Augustinians settled round them in benediction as he stepped across the grave to take her in his arms.

  ‘I have been thinking.’ As they retraced their steps towards the house, he drew her to a halt in the shelter of a richly carved doorway to place his hands on her shoulders and turn her towards him. When she looked at him quizzically, he bent his head to kiss her hair, her eyes and then pressed his lips to the palm of her hand with utmost tenderness before folding her fingers over to seal the caress.

  ‘That was very nice, Hugh.’ Her eyes sparkled with a sudden hint of mischief. ‘Tell me, my love. Will you write more poems for me?’

  ‘Ah. Well … only if you insist.’ He grinned, bending his head to t
ouch his lips to the rose at her breast. ‘I have a confession to make, Frances Rosalind.’

  ‘Really, my lord?’ She was charmed by the unexpected touch of colour that softened his cheekbones. ‘And what could that be?’

  ‘I had a little help. From a medieval troubadour who just happened to cross my path … But his sentiments towards his lady are mine, and the words that he expressed mirror the thoughts in my heart.’

  ‘Then I forgive you. How could I not?’

  Their eyes met and held for a long moment in complete understanding, in a bond as potent as shimmering steel.

  ‘And now, my lady, as I was saying before you so sadly interrupted, I have been thinking about your inheritance. If you remember, it is dependent on one eventuality.’

  ‘And that is?’ She smiled because his train of thought was as clear and glittering as faceted crystal.

  ‘You have four years in which to carry my child. Otherwise the money goes into the pockets of your uncle.’

  ‘Four years? Such a short time.’ Her smile was a delight to him. ‘You will have to persuade me.’

  ‘I want you to carry my heir, my son,’ he said fiercely, startling her with the intensity in his voice and the insistent pressure of his fingers on her shoulders. ‘That is the only reason I married you, after all.’ The expression in his eyes heated her blood and she read desire in their depths.

  ‘That is not very persuasive. I think you can do better, my lord. Besides, I want a daughter to whom I can leave all my money. We now have a family tradition, you realise.’

  ‘I knew you would be difficult, my lady.’ His kiss was hot and possessive, leaving her in no doubt of his intentions. Her heart leapt in unity and her response was immediate.

  ‘Well, then.’

  He linked his fingers with hers and pulled her once more into his arms, to turn his face into her hair. This love was still too new, too bright for him to take for granted. A wave of sheer disbelief swept over him, that she could love him, that he could love her with such certainty. She saw it as she stepped back and rubbed at the crease between his brows with gentle fingers, as he often did with her.